A city is waking up.
Early in the morning.
Time for Poetry.
Time for mistery.
Time for Time for Chatting.
Time for magic.
Time for observtion.
The sunrise and all its magic. People launch the day in the streets. They wash yesterday's memories, to begin a new day, and new memories. From the side walk over the sea, where old men are chatting, to the mini van descending on the vibrating picture of the city. Beirut is discovered. In the morning the poetry become no more written, it's seen in the air, on the ground of the baker and his fire… Faces looking like poetry, poetry looking like faces. A city is stripping in front of you. She only keeps her sea on.Beirut, a city imprisoned by the sea, a sea imprisoned by the city.
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